it's almost sweet, this margarita to greet
by an awesome blossom
Summary: Snake x Link: don't crash, don't crash, don't crash, don't - CRASSSH. Six word summary: "They had sex. Snake made hashbrowns." Bullshit one-shot thing.


**it's almost sweet, this margarita to greet**  
by an awesome blossom  
_don't crash, don't crash, don't crash, don't - CRASSSH_

Snake/Link. _Super Smash Bros. Brawl_ is property of Nintendo and co. Solid Snake is property of Konami.

* * *

Grit makes its way between his lips, and his tongue lashes out to scour sandpaper wrapped around smooth curves. Blending with all the nicotine, sweat, and lies, it's almost sweet, this margarita to greet the ascension of the moon - almost. And it's anything but chilly then, atmospheric conditions aside, as warmth embraces and courses through bodies aligned.

So he stretches his legs and relaxes in the radiation, despite his muscles that can't and won't give in to his mind's dulling. It's just as well with the sound of gunfire in his ear, puncturing and reverberating throughout his body, and the commencement of action grips him at the head. He can't think anymore, and his brain has gone, perhaps with his shirt cast off by the sudden heat wave.

The race has begun anyway, so who cares about shirts and brains and other trifling matters? It's just the heat and movement of the men dicking around the track, gleaming from increased sweat in the moonlight. No, no one cares about trifles. Not when the race is on.

And on and on it is, laps around the edges with curve momentum to drive them forward just to do it all over again without fear of crash or sputtering death - because there's no time for fear of careening over the edge when careening into each other is such a more tangible possibility. It is a do or be done game, and, fucking around aside, the men really don't want to be done.

So they do.

Long after numbers cease to have meaning, heat envelops them from the trance-like motion of the men, and he can't tell anymore if he's languidly licking salt or if it's just sweat all over his body from the scorching friction of the race. Either way he can't breathe, and he feels like he'll die if he keeps his pants on any longer. It's a struggle to tear them off, keep track of the race, and sip a margarita at the same time, but it eventually happens - and what a relief.

He may be vulnerable and nude, but he is as he was when he entered into visceral existence from the womb, and that gives him some degree of confidence in lying on the track while kissing an endless drink. It may not protect him from injury or ill intent of men, but it is a natural state in an unnatural world.

And so he pours the margarita over his skin, writhing in the explosive heat of allowing another to crash into him by will or lapse in concentration. He thinks he's gone deaf because explosions are not supposed to be queerishly silent, but he's glad for it anyway. The heat has constricted his throat, and he doubts he could manage more than a hoarse groan even if he wanted to yell on fire.

It's so hot and his flesh is burning, but he hardly minds since he knows where he is, he can _feel_ where he is, where they are, and, as the fire rapidly shrinks to nothing more than a burning cigarette, where they were.

Body and liquid spent, he resigns himself to a hard sleep, and the moon understands by leaving. The burning cigarette persists, though, with its overpowering smell that consumes everything. However, it is nothing more to him than a gentle, olfactory lullaby that upon daybreak transforms itself into a sizzling hash brown reveille long after he's shut down.

It is a stimulant, though, in due time, and he stumbles from an empty bed to follow the scent of breakfast leading to a minimalist's kitchen - the minimalist himself looking quite out of place in his environment as he stares at an egg carton and lets hash browns sizzle in a pan. His lips can't help but to quirk into a smile as he closes the distance between them.

"How do you like your eggs?" Snake asks, keeping his eye on the carton even when the other man pushes it aside, and to it Link answers before giving a long, morning kiss:

"I don't, but I like my sausage well done."


End file.
